That might not seem like a big deal to you, but to me it’s immense. Standard protocol for my spider encounters is to flap my arms about and scream like a little girl until another family member–my husband, my kid, the dog– dispatches the offending arachnid by pounding it into dust. Then I take a few Xanax and retreat to the safety of my bedroom until the house is searched and the all clear signal sounds.
I want it known that I’m made of pretty tough stuff. I’ve held snakes, I’ve fished rotting mice out from under the refrigerator, I’ve given birth twice without so much as an aspirin. I’ve eaten haggis, for the love of all that’s holy. But spiders–they give me the heeby-jeebies with their eight legs and eight eyes and their ability to turn mild mannered men into leotard-wearing super heroes.
And this spider was a particularly heinous spider: I’m guessing a brown recluse/black widow hybrid that was tweaked on meth, oozing radioactive waste, and responsible for writing some fairly nasty graffiti about me in the break room at work.
But when we came face to face, I found a previously untapped inner strength. Armed with a broom, I sent the heinous spider to meet its maker. And you know what? I felt kind of sad.
Who knew Jiminy Cricket would sit on my shoulder at just that moment, reminding me that spiders, too, are among God’s wonderful and unique creations? I thought of how Charlotte saved Wilbur’s bacon by weaving Some Pig into her web, and of singing Itsy Bitsy Spider with my children.
But then I got over myself.
I kicked that spider’s ass, bitches, and I will sleep like a baby tonight.*
*According to Snapple Facts, the average person swallows eight spiders a year while sleeping. Crap.